I hold him upright while he chokes and gasps for his last bit of air. Blood coats my fingers and the color red spurs me on even more. I wish I was holding a gun in my hand to bring down every damn one of them out here, instead of this joke of a knife.
I scoff when I know he's dead. My arm is no longer strong enough to hold his dead weight through these bars, so I let him fall to the ground, hoping his soul is on its way straight to hell.
That’s when I hear the voice of the man I haven’t spoken to in years.
My fucking brother.
“Nice kill.” Those are the words he says to me after not seeing him for years. The last time we spoke was when I hauled his ass out of a drug-infested home. He had a needle dangling out of his arm and puke all over his clothes. He was foaming at the mouth and not even coherent. For years, we tried to help him get his shit together.
I’ve shoved aside how I feel about losing my blood brother, but I will never forget the sobs, the prayers, and the way my mother blamed herself continuously for the way Ty lived his life. My mother lost her will to fight after the third time she convinced him to enter rehab, only for him to get out and jump right back in with the same crowd he ran around with. Dealers. Whores. Cold-blooded murderers. He’s a pathetic disgrace to mankind, and now here he is, looking straight at my blood-covered hands.
“Walk closer, you crazy fuck. Let me do the same to you.” I practically growl out my words through the hatred in my heart. I don’t give a fuck if I carve his smug face up. The drugs have done a number on his sorry ass anyway. He’s a few years younger than I am, but you sure as shit couldn’t tell by looking at him. His once wrinkle-free skin is worn and crow’s feet rest at the corners of his malice-filled eyes.
He’s clean though and freshly shaved, which is more than I could say about him the last few times I saw him. His hair is slightly damp, and I can smell the soap from here. He smells as though he’s just come from the shower. My own body itches to wash off this place’s disgusting odor.
“Drop the motherfucking knife, Kaleb, or I’ll shoot you with your own fucking gun.” He whisks my pistol out of the back of his pants. The silver metal of the barrel shines daringly in the heat of the sun as I watch his cocky-ass smile on his face. He’s loving this.
I weigh out my options, which are fucking slim. I know he’d love to shoot me and would probably announce to the world he’s the one who had the honor.
I drop the knife, and the loud clank of the small blade echoes in the tiny cell as it crashes to the cement floor. I’m not giving up. I’m playing his game. I want my hands on this fucker. He knows it too by the way he walks toward me. He’s scared, as he should be. That’s why he has me caged up.
“How are mom and Amelie these days?” he asks with not a damn ounce of sincerity in his tone. I say nothing. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest. I’m done talking. No way will I feed into his shit, nor will I have a friendly long-time-no-see conversation with him.
“I don’t have time for you to answer me anyway. I’m about to fuck up your life, Kaleb. Mom’s little golden boy. How does it feel to know that perfect fucking life you live is about to be over?” I seethe inside as I listen to his confidence. “Mom considers me dead. Well, it’s about time to show her what dead really looks like.” He stops walking to speak directly in front of me. “I wonder what she’ll think when she opens the box with your fucking head in it.” His eyes stare into mine, and I want to fucking rip them out of his face and force them down his throat. He knows our mother is a sore spot with me, and I know he’ll use her to try to get through to me. Thank fuck he doesn’t know about Jade.
He watches me as he dials a number on his phone.
“Get someone down here and bury Raphael. His weak ass is dead thanks to my brother. Preferably Chico, since he was sent down here and obviously took off like a motherfucking chicken. Then, when he’s done digging the grave, shoot him and bury them both.” He snaps his cheap burner phone shut. He keeps the gun trained on me as he bends down and grabs the dead man by his hair. His unfocused, dead eyes are wide open and staring off into space as he drags him off to the side.
“Now, time for some fun. Since you seem to be some badass military expert, shackle yourself.” He drops a duffle bag down and pulls out a set of shackles. He throws them on the ground in front of the cell and stares at me to move.
“Do it, Kaleb, or I swear I’ll shoot you then cut your pretty boy head from your body. I’m itching to cut that fucking mom tattoo off your skin and ship them both to her.” I’d be a fool to admit that every time he says ‘mom’ I cringe inside. There’s something in the way he looks at me. His gaze is void of any emotion or sign that we have the same blood running through our veins at all.